August 1, 2009 [You, the Living]

In the midst of a faded-Ikea-pastel magic-realist rumination, Roy Andersson throws one last party before Armageddon, a final chance to sing and play music and tell the truth, a musical of a thrown-together pile of full-throated celebrations and complaints and memorials accompanied by tunes sung at both High Mass and Irish wake, Dixieland dance-hall and grunge club—sing-alongs and sweet dirges filled with regrets and hope.

And so precise, so Swedish—its joys mitigated by perfectly framed images of melancholy, even cynicism; but the terrors of living an everyday life-nightmare are not demeaned—just the opposite: I cry with them in their simple-minded misgivings and tired whining—because they sing in a register I can match, it's the same damn song of misunderstanding and yearning that I've been singing since forever.

But we're running out of time. Sure, at the moment we're warm in our beds, but Goethe points at our foot poking out of the cover, where there's a chill. I learned how to sleep like that from a friend who pointed out the pleasure of that double sensation, the warmth all over and the air-conditioned piggies down at the foot of the bed—and You, the Living gives me that goosebump-on-my-grave pleasure, knowing that one day we'll all be gone—even as we bemoan our existence and wish we were dead—or maybe just toss out everyone else, get them the hell out of the way so that we can have a little time on our own.

But be careful what you wish for: that time will come, and soon—and you'll realize you don't want it: the day as it stands is nice enough; the band is playing somewhere, soft as a wishing dream or thin Swedish sunbeam. So sing, you little sparrow in the mead hall, warm for a while until you stick out a toe and fly into the long winter.